no matter where we are (i will keep you in my heart)
by shineyma
Summary: Jemma plans to join a field team. Her husband thinks it's a terrible idea. (Technically follows my Married in Vegas drabble, but you don't need to read that first.)


A/N: This is technically in the same universe as my married in vegas drabble (chapter 4 of my prompt collection), but you don't need to read that to understand this.

Title is from "I'll Think of You" by Sam Tsui and Kurt Hugo Schneider.

* * *

><p>"No."<p>

"No what, darling?" Jemma asks distractedly. She was _sure_ that her red jumper was here somewhere, but she can't find it for the life of her. She hopes she didn't leave it in their room at the Sandbox.

"No, you are _not_ joining a field team."

She looks away from her perusal of the wardrobe to frown at Grant. He's standing in the doorway, and he looks terrible. The suit he's dressed in is dusty and torn, the jacket missing—which allows her to see the dried blood on the right sleeve—and there's a cut on his right cheek in need of cleaning.

"Did you come straight here?" she asks. "You should really report to medical, that cut looks—"

"Jemma," he interrupts. "You are _not_ going into the field."

She rolls her eyes and returns her attention to the wardrobe. "Welcome home, darling. Why yes, I did miss you, as it happens. How was your mission?"

"Jem—"

"Paris this time, wasn't it?" she continues. Giving up on finding her jumper (it must be at the Sandbox after all; she'll have to remember to grab it the next time she's there), she stands and crosses to the bed, considering the clothes she's laid out. "It was successful, I hope—I heard the Rising Tide was involved, somehow?"

"_Jemma_."

"They really are becoming something of a bother, aren't they?" she asks. She thinks perhaps she should grab another jacket—she does tend to get cold on planes, and she'll be living on one for the foreseeable future. "Someone should do something about them."

She turns to make another trip to the wardrobe, and bumps right into Grant. She starts a little—he really needs to make more noise when he walks, he's always sneaking up on her—and starts to take a step back, but is stopped by his hands on her shoulders.

"Jemma," he says flatly. "There is _no way_ I'm letting you join a field team."

"Letting me?" she asks pleasantly.

He heaves a sigh. "You know what I mean."

"I'm not sure I do," she disagrees. "Because from what you said, it _sounded_ like you believe you have the right to order me about like I'm a _child_, rather than your _wife_."

"You know exactly what I mean," he says, crossing his arms. "And don't try to change the subject."

Darn. That sort of diversion usually works on him. She drops the act.

"Grant, I know you're concerned," she says. "But I'm going to be fine. Fitz will be with me—"

"_Fitz_ failed the field assessment just as badly as you did," he interrupts.

True. "Well, there will be a team specialist to protect us, and the lead agent is _very_ competent, I assure you."

"The lead agent got himself _killed_ the last time he saw action," he says impatiently. "And I am _not_ trusting your safety to just any specialist."

"Wait, you know—"

"Garrett pulled some strings," he says. "Got me read in. Coulson, Jem? Really? The man's a _disaster_."

Ah, she should have known. John Garrett, who is not only Grant's supervising officer but also the closest thing he has to a father, has always been very fond of her, and is probably just as concerned about her intent to venture into the field as Grant is. In fact, he was probably the one who told Grant about it in the first place.

"He is _not_," she says. "I'll admit that he was a little more…flippant than I was expecting, but—"

"But nothing," he interrupts. "I wouldn't trust him with _Rosalind's_ well-being, let alone yours."

"Well, that's just ridiculous," she frowns. "Cacti are very durable anyway, but we still haven't been able to reverse the effects of the D-897 serum. Rosalind is essentially indestructible."

"_Exactly_."

"Have you ever even met Agent Coulson?" she asks, choosing to ignore the nonsensical digression.

Grant is silent.

"Did _not_ think so," she says, triumphant. "So, now that that's settled—"

"Absolutely nothing is settled," he says flatly. "Who's your team specialist? Garrett didn't know."

She pauses, trying to remember. She hasn't met the man yet, and while she knows she heard his name yesterday, there was so _much_ happening in the meeting…Ah, yes.

"Rollins," she says brightly. "Jack Rollins."

"Are you _kidding_ me?" he asks.

She straightens a little; she hasn't seen him look so unamused since he came home from a mission to find that she'd been put on leave after overworking herself to the point of fainting from exhaustion in the middle of an experiment. (And wasn't _that_ an embarrassing incident from start to finish.)

"No," she says slowly. "Is there a problem with Agent Rollins?"

"Yeah, Jem, there is," he says. "Rollins would abandon his own _grandmother_ to the enemy to save his own skin. There's no way I'm trusting him with your back."

"Oh, I'm sure that's not true," she dismisses, although she's not actually as confident as she sounds. Grant would know better than she would, of course.

"It is," he says. "But it's irrelevant, because you're _not going_."

He sounds more desperate than commanding, and Jemma sighs. She knows how Grant worries for her—how he frets about her safety, even in the most secure of bases. His role as a specialist requires him to spend time in dangerous places doing dangerous things, and he's seen a lot of innocent people get caught in the crossfire. She doesn't need to be _told_ that his worst nightmares involve something of that sort happening to her—she's been present for enough of them.

"Grant," she says softly. "We've talked about this. I'm _tired_ of running models in the lab. I want—I want _real_ experience. I want _adventure_. And this may be my best chance to get it."

"Yeah, well, adventures aren't all they're cracked up to be," he says.

"Don't I deserve the chance to find that out for myself?" she asks. She can see that he's wavering, anger being replaced by resignation, and pushes her advantage. "And, in our five years of marriage, I've never once stopped you from going on assignment, no matter how often you come home dented. I trust you to make your own choices. I think you owe me the same courtesy."

He sighs heavily. "You do, and I do. I know. And if it was _anyone_ but Rollins…."

"It might not be," she says hopefully. "I don't think it's been finalized yet. Apparently, they wanted _you_ originally, but, for obvious reasons…"

"Right," he says, making a face.

Even if the anti-fraternization regulations _weren't_ an issue, Grant's not exactly the sort to do well on a team. He's very much a lone wolf, and everyone knows it. (The intra-Agency betting pool regarding their supposedly inevitable divorce has grown to mammoth proportions at this point.)

"So if they decide against Rollins, you'll respect my choice?" she checks.

"_If_ it's someone I know I can trust," he says warningly. He pauses, contemplative. "Romanoff, maybe, or Barton—"

"I think calling out Strike Team Delta is a bit extreme, don't you?" she asks, trying (and most likely failing) to keep her amusement off her face. "And in any case, they don't know that Agent Coulson is alive."

"That can be changed," he mutters darkly.

"Not without a court martial," she points out.

His expression suggests that it would be worth it, and she's about to press the issue when she's distracted by her mobile going off. She picks it up from the bedside table and deactivates the alarm, then slips it into her pocket.

"I need to report to medical," she says. "For immunization."

"Immunization?"

"Yes," she says. "It's a _mobile_ response team, you know, and we won't have time to stop and vaccinate ourselves every time we need to respond to an incident in a foreign country. Therefore, we need to receive the full range of vaccinations now."

Grant makes a face.

"Quite," she agrees. "But, needs must. You're welcome to accompany me, if you'd like to continue this discussion in medical. You really should get that cut looked at, either way."

He frowns and checks his watch.

"No," he says. "I need to go anyway. I was on my way to debrief when I got Garrett's call." He points at her seriously. "But don't think this is over."

"Wouldn't dream of it, darling," she says with a sweet smile.

He shakes his head and turns to leave.

"Aren't you forgetting something?" she asks. When he turns around, she hooks her thumb through the chain of one of her necklaces and holds it up. "Your ring."

Neither one of them wears their wedding ring on their hand. Jemma because her job requires dealing with a lot of dangerous substances, and she can't risk her gloves catching on anything, and Grant because he can't afford to have a tan line on his ring finger—he does too much undercover work. Instead, they wear their rings on chains around their necks. Grant can't take his with him into the field, of course—even if it wouldn't put his covers at risk, there's too much chance of losing it in a struggle—so he always leaves it with her.

Usually, the first thing he does when he gets home is ask for his ring back. It's a mark of how upset he is that he seems to have forgotten it entirely.

His face softens and he holds out his hand expectantly. Jemma pulls off his necklace—the chain for his is longer than hers, for obvious reasons, and it slips easily over her head—and places it gently in his hand. He closes his fist around it and leans down to kiss her briefly.

"I missed you, too," he murmurs as he pulls back. "And the mission was fine."

The state of his suit (and his face) would suggest otherwise, but she lets it go. She's long since learned to pick her battles, when it comes to Grant's work, and the fact that he's not displaying any difficulty moving or breathing is enough to satisfy her.

She's still going to request a copy of the report, of course, but that's nothing new. The request is usually denied, anyway, since she's only Level Five.

She follows him out of the bedroom and across the sitting room, already mentally composing her request. Perhaps she'll try the 'possible encounter with alien substance' excuse again—SHIELD is always very cautious about such things, of course, and it's worked before. Admittedly, only the once, and he actually _had_ been in contact with an alien substance, but still.

Grant pulls the door open, then stands back and motions to the hallway.

"After you," he invites.

"Thank you," she says. She steps out of the room and waits as he follows and locks the door. Medical and Command are on opposite sides of the building, so they'll have to go their separate ways right here. "I'll see you later?"

"As soon as the briefing's over," he agrees. "We have a discussion to finish."

"Of course we do," she says, squeezing his arm and turning away. "Not to mention, we really should spend as much time as we can together before I leave."

"That hasn't been decided yet," he calls after her.

"Whatever you say, darling," she says over her shoulder.

Really, they both know that she won the argument before it even began. At the end of the day, her happiness is just as important to him as her safety is. He might stop her from joining the team if he had reason to believe that she, specifically, would be in danger, but when it's only a possibility?

He'll give in soon enough.

x

She's not surprised when she returns to their quarters two hours later to find that Grant isn't back yet. Debriefs tend to take a while, especially when things go wrong, as they obviously did on his most recent assignment. She has plenty to occupy herself with—packing is only the first item on a very long list of things she needs to accomplish before she leaves.

When he still hasn't returned by dinner time, however, she begins to worry a bit. She hopes he hasn't been sent right back out—that's happened, once or twice, and it's never a good sign.

He finally returns just as she's getting into bed, and she raises an eyebrow at him expectantly.

"You're going to call me every day," he says as he pulls off his tie. "Even if I'm on assignment, I want a daily voicemail."

She takes a moment to process that, then smiles (a tad smugly, it must be said). "So, we're agreed, then? You won't argue about my assignment to Agent Coulson's team any longer?"

"I still don't like it," he sighs. "But no. I won't."

"Thank you," she says. He's fumbling a little with the buttons on his shirt, obviously at the clumsy stage of exhaustion, and she gets out of bed to help him. "And yes, I promise to call you every day, whether you answer or not."

He shrugs off his shirt and lobs it in the direction of the laundry basket without looking—it lands perfectly, of course—and kicks off his shoes.

"And we're gonna work on your shooting before you go," he warns. "I've already scheduled us time at the range."

She makes a face, but nods. It's a reasonable enough demand.

"What changed your mind?" she asks, picking up his shoes and depositing them in the bottom of the wardrobe. "I thought it would take at least another hour of discussion before you agreed."

"Made some calls," he says. He removes his belt and hangs it on the door, then leans against the desk to pull off his socks. "Rollins is out. Trip'll be your team's specialist."

She stops halfway back to the bed and turns to face him, surprised.

"How on earth did you manage _that_?" she asks, impressed despite herself. It's an elegant solution; Antoine Triplett is Grant's closest friend, and possibly the only person, aside from himself and Garrett, that he would trust with her safety. Still, it's more than a little amazing that he's managed to alter the roster of a team he's not even technically involved with—and on such short notice, too.

He shrugs. "Garrett helped. He's been wanting to get Trip on lighter duty for a while anyway."

"Ah," she says, understanding. Trip's partner, Monroe, was killed in action last month, and Trip, by all reports, is not taking it very well. She hasn't seen him since the funeral, but Garrett has mentioned his concerns to her in their weekly calls.

"You're going to do whatever he says," Grant instructs. "He gives you an order in the field, you follow it."

"I will," she says. "Promise."

"Even if it interferes with your science," he says.

"Even if it interferes with my science," she agrees. "I won't do anything foolish, Grant, I promise. I'll be as safe as houses."

"Do you have any idea how often I break into houses, Jem?" he asks, but he sounds more resigned than anything else. "That's not comforting."

She crosses the room again and takes his hands in hers.

"Fine," she says. "Then I'll be as safe as a safehouse with security designed to _your_ specifications, guarded by a Strike Team, with reinforced walls and a panic room that doubles as an escape pod."

He laughs under his breath and uses their entwined hands to tug her forward, into his arms.

"That sounds like a much better posting than Coulson's team," he says into her hair. "Could I talk you into that?"

She hugs him gently. "I'm afraid not, darling."

"Worth a shot," he says. He lets go of her and steps back. "There's just one thing."

"Yes?"

He reaches up and removes his necklace. "I'm not going to be able to drop by and give you this every time I get sent out," he says, looping it over her neck. "So you'll need to hold onto it the whole time."

"Oh, of course," she says. "I should have thought of that."

"Take good care of it," he requests quietly, running his fingers along the chain. "I'm gonna want it back in the same condition."

"I promise," she says, equally quiet. "It'll be safe as houses."

"Don't start that again," he warns, his solemn mood disappearing just as quickly as it came. "We'll be here all night."

"Very well," she says. "Are you coming to bed now?"

He shakes his head. "Not yet. I need a shower first." He pauses in the act of unbuttoning his trousers, giving her a little smirk. "I don't suppose you'd be willing to wash my back?"

"Well," she says. "You have been very reasonable today. No shouting, no slamming of doors, no ultimatums…"

"I have been, haven't I?" he agrees. "I'd say that deserves a reward, wouldn't you?"

"Oh, certainly," she nods. "Perhaps even more than one. Positive reinforcement, you know."

"Now, that's what I like to hear."

x

Six weeks later, Jemma removes both of her necklaces and lays them gently on her desk. SHIELD will insist on testing them and decontaminating them, of course, but she trusts that Agent Coulson will ensure that they're returned to Grant eventually.

Fitz is stirring already. She'll have to hurry, if she wants to do this before he wakes.

She leaves the lab, locking the door behind herself, just in case. It will only delay Fitz for a moment, but a moment is all she needs. With any luck, he won't regain consciousness until she's already gone. She doesn't want him to have to see this.

She hits the button to lower the cargo ramp and walks to the end of it as it descends. The wind is so loud that she can't even hear the humming over it. That's nice—it's not a pleasant sound, since she knows exactly what it means.

She stands there for a moment, letting the wind blow through her hair, gathering her courage. This is for her team, she reminds herself. For Fitz, her best friend and partner and brother for so many years—the Watson to her Holmes, as it were. For Skye, who has, in a few short weeks, become the closest thing to a sister she's ever had. For Trip, the best man at her wedding, who stepped into the role of brother-in-law with nothing short of glee. For May and Coulson, who have dedicated their lives to helping people, and will continue to do so, if she only gives them this chance.

This is for her team.

Grant will never forgive her, but that's all right. Better angry than sad, she thinks.

She doesn't think she can do this if she's looking out at the drop—it's such a long way down. So she turns around, towards the lab, and her heart seizes in her chest as she sees Fitz, pulling at the door, mouth open in a scream she can't hear. Oh, no.

She didn't want him to see this. If only there were a way to knock him out again—but she's out of time. She can feel it.

She presses one hand to her chest, where her rings should be. She hopes Coulson does as she asked and has Garrett tell Grant, rather than doing it himself, as his honor will demand. Grant will take it better coming from the man who has been as a father to him than he would from a man he will undoubtedly blame for her death.

Fitz is still screaming. She takes a deep breath, mentally apologizes—to Grant, to Fitz, to her parents—and steps back, into the open air.

The wind catches her, and she's pulled away.

x

(_Coda_:

Later, as they wait for the team to pick them up from the Moroccan base, Trip apologizes as he drapes another blanket around her shoulders.

"Trip, you saved my life," she points out, confused. "What could you possibly have to apologize for?"

He shifts uncomfortably and looks away. "We're gonna have some…company, joining us at the Sandbox."

It takes a moment to click. When it does, she sets her tea down and glares at him in disbelief.

"You _told_ him?"

Needless to say, the reunion at the Sandbox is far from peaceful. On the bright side, she does find her red jumper. So there's that.)


End file.
